Spear of Ultramar

by David Annandale

  ‘What value is its liberation if we lose Terra?’ Gorod asks. ‘Do we have time to take it back?’

  We have so little time, Guilliman thinks. Less, he suspects, than any of them can know. But there are principles at stake too, and he stands by them. ‘The question we are asking is the wrong one,’ he declares. ‘The problem is not whether Carchera must be sacrificed for Terra. The problem is how we liberate Carchera, and how to do it quickly. Even if we annihilated this world, and so we cleared the Mandeville point of the warp storm, the space station and the enemy fleet still have to be defeated. All three enemy forces must be defeated for us to have a clear run at leaving the system. So Carchera will be liberated.’

  ‘To approach Siderius, we need to take out the defence lasers,’ says Prayto.

  ‘We will. One company, brought in on Stormbirds from our current position.’

  Gorod nods. ‘They can fly in low enough that the lasers won’t be able to touch them.’

  ‘Precisely,’ says Guilliman. ‘The company destroys the gun emplacements, then moves in on Siderius.’

  Gorod looks hugely relieved that the proposal he felt duty-bound to raise will not be a reality. Guilliman feels some concern. There is the possibility that Gorod was right, that there is no way of saving both Carchera and Terra. But Guilliman is acting within the logic of the conflict, and the timing that has presented itself. He is also acting within the morality the Imperium seeks to preserve.

  ‘Which company?’ Prayto asks.

  ‘I will speak with Iasus,’ says Guilliman.

  ‘The Destroyers,’ Gorod says. ‘You foresaw this possibility, then, when you had the Cavascor join our squadron.’

  ‘I anticipated the potential need for unusually violent action.’ Guilliman sighs. He feels limited satisfaction in being correct.

  ‘How wide will their remit be?’ Prayto asks.

  ‘Wider than it’s been,’ says Guilliman. He gives the Librarian a significant look.

  A few hours later, Captain Hierax and the Second Destroyers are completing final preparations. The Stormbirds in the huge launch bay of the Cavascor have their loading ramps down. Their powerful engines are idling, filling the cavernous space with the background of a dull, echoing roar. The air stings to breathe, fouled by the fumes from the engines of the tanks rumbling up the ramps into the heavy gunships.

  Iasus approaches Hierax at the base of the landing struts of the Stormbird Retaliator, which will lead the assault. Hierax turns to greet the Chapter Master. There is another legionary with him. It is one of Hierax’s sergeants, and the captain is interested to see the change in the Destroyer’s armour. He is not wearing a helmet. Instead, his head is surrounded by a psychic hood.

  ‘Brother-Sergeant Aphovos,’ says Hierax. ‘It has been some years since I have seen you don that equipment.’

  ‘I have finally retrained enough to use it once more.’ Since Guilliman broke with the Edict of Nikaea after Calth, it has been an ongoing process to reintroduce psykers across the entire Legion.

  ‘Then I will have you in my squad, Librarian Aphovos, and by my side.’

  ‘You honour me, brother-captain.’

  ‘We have received instructions from the primarch,’ Iasus says. ‘We will use every means against the enemy. Your discretion with regards to armaments is unrestricted.’

  ‘I see,’ says Hierax. ‘Good.’ The traitors have rained horror down on the Emperor’s dream for the galaxy. So Hierax will rain horror on them. ‘Good.’

  Two Warhawk-class Stormbirds fly low over the water. The Retaliator, in the lead, carries the full complement of the legionaries of the Second Destroyers. Close behind, the Unbroken Vigil transports the company’s heavy armour. The gales from the gunship’s engines cut furrows through the waves. The mountain chains that enclose Siderius rise to meet the Destroyers, breakers smashing into foam against the sheer faces that jut into the ocean. The Stormbirds bank south and fly parallel with the mountains. Then the shore opens up, becoming a region of rock-covered plains.

  The target comes into view. Four linked defence lasers aim their cannons to the sky. One gun is mounted on a turret that domes the centre of a squat, broad-shouldered keep. It has a greater range of movement than the other three, able to turn 360 degrees, and shoot lower towards the horizon. The rest of the guns have been fixed to the outside of the keep. Gigantic frameworks support them, and nests of immense conduits link them to the building and the power source within. They have some movement on the vertical axis, but that is all.

  Hierax rides in the cockpit of the Retaliator with the pilot, Lanatus. He is a good fighter on land, and a fearsome one in the air. His hands move over the controls of the gunship as if they had their own consciousness, freeing Lanatus to look for targets.

  ‘What do you make of that construction?’ Hierax asks.

  ‘It looks recent. Those three outer cannons are not original to the keep.’

  ‘Perhaps brought in from other cities. Siderius may be the only one the enemy cares to defend.’

  ‘How long would it take to attach the guns and make all four operational?’ Lanatus wonders.

  ‘There aren’t many forces that would have the skill to do this at all,’ Hierax answers. ‘But those who do, if they have the means, could do it quickly.’

  The super-heavy gunships close in on the gun emplacement. A few kilometres out, the anti-air fire of Whirlwind tanks opens up near the base of the keep. The Stormbirds return fire with lascannons and Dreadstrike missiles. A direct hit destroys the reinforced position of one of the Whirlwinds. As they drop even lower, making ready to land, Hierax sees the markings on the enemy tanks, and at last he knows his foe.

  ‘Iron Warriors,’ he says. ‘Let the primarch know who has challenged us, and take us in. Landing pattern Eridani.’

  Behind the Retaliator, the Vigil climbs higher, unleashing a rain of las and missiles at the Iron Warriors’ positions, covering the landing of its sister ship. As the fireballs bloom, Retaliator makes the landing, the ramp dropping open before the Stormbird’s struts have touched the ground. These are the moments of vulnerability, but the Destroyers are swift, and the disembarkation is complete before the Unbroken Vigil’s barrage has faded. Then the Retaliator takes off, and hammers the enemy while the other gunship lands and unloads the tanks.

  Hierax is already leading the march forward before both gunships are in the air again. Mortars are landing in the vicinity of the company. The Destroyers do not fire back just yet, leaving the Stormbirds to deal the punishment until the legionaries get within range.

  The ground is rocky and uneven, but there is no cover. Speed is the Destroyers’ defence. Hierax is not displeased that the only strategy open to him is the direct attack. It suits him well.

  Overhead, the Stormbirds fly strafing raids back and forth over the Iron Warriors. They launch more missiles, and the walls of the keep tremble, but do not fall. One of the exterior guns takes a direct hit. Its towering barrel falls, broken in two. Plasma flares around the wreckage of the gun, ruptured conduits lashing back and forth.

  And now the Destroyers can begin their attack.

  ‘A small force,’ says Legionary Kletos, keeping pace with his captain as their squad thunders forward in the lead.

  ‘Either they did not expect us, or they are foolishly arrogant,’ Hierax says. Kletos is right. The orbital guns are not defended as they should be. Apart from the second Whirlwind, already gutted by the Stormbirds, there is a single Predator tank, and maybe twenty Iron Warriors. They have built a makeshift wall using the rocks from the plain, but they treat its shelter with disdain, moving forward to intercept the Ultramarines. Their wall has helped against the aerial attacks, and that, it seems, is enough. The Destroyers are too close now for heavy fire from the gunships to continue.

  Iron Warriors and Ultramarines send streams of bolter fire at each other. Hierax c
harges with his rifle on full burst. Mortar fire explodes a few metres from him, but his armour absorbs the blast and he keeps running, the line of his attack unwavering. He places a cluster of bolt shells through the skull of an Iron Warrior.

  The Predator surges forward, and the legionaries of the IV run with it. They are not behaving as a defensive force. They are on the offence, hurling themselves forward, a sword point to drive through the centre of the Destroyers’ columns. The Predator’s autocannon rounds pulverise the front ranks of the Ultramarines, and Hierax narrowly misses taking a direct hit. The Iron Warriors charge into the infantry fire of the Destroyers, and some fall, but they are relentless. Nothing but annihilation will halt their advance.

  The madness of the attack startles Hierax for a moment. Then he sees that there is a strategy here. It is as Guilliman has said. The Iron Warriors are not here to hold the ground. They are here to stymie the Ultramarines. This contingent is too small to protect the guns for any length of time. Their defensive positions would be overrun almost immediately by the Destroyers, who outnumber the Iron Warriors five to one. But now the Iron Warriors attack. They know they are doomed, and so they are fixed upon bringing as many of their enemy down with them as they can.

  ‘Make way,’ Hierax voxes his company. ‘Give them space. Let them charge.’

  The Destroyers pull and split, the company parting to give the Iron Warriors an unimpeded path down the middle of the column.

  ‘I will not waste any time with you,’ Hierax mutters.

  Perhaps with a conventionally armed force, the Iron Warriors’ strategy could have succeeded. But these are the Destroyers, and there are no civilian populations here to be preserved. Only an enemy to be eradicated with maximum efficiency.

  ‘Phosphex launchers,’ Hierax orders. ‘Hit them and finish them.’

  The Iron Warriors pause as they reach the centre of the column. The Second Destroyers are still pulling back. In a tight formation, the enemy turns north to pursue one arm of the retreating Ultramarines. Only the Destroyers are not retreating. They are pulling back to strike all the harder.

  Phosphex rockets slam into the Iron Warriors. The liquid green fog clings to them like a hungry animal. It burns through armour. It burns through flesh. It grips its prey and never lets go until everything is consumed. It is a weapon as foul as it is powerful. The Ultramarines are striking back at last in the Carchera system, and they are rewarded with the screams of the dying.

  The Predator accelerates, streaming the green fire of phosphex, its lascannon firing continuously, its crew determined to slaughter whom they can before they die. Their moments are few. Three Ultramarines Predators catch the enemy tank in a crossfire. Simultaneous hits tear its armour apart and reduce it to a flaming wreck.

  ‘That was quick work,’ says Kletos as Hierax leads the way forward to the keep.

  ‘A quick victory is the only victory we can have in this war,’ Hierax tells him. Iasus has been very clear about the stakes.

  The Destroyers reach the base of the keep. There are no further defenders. Hierax sends demolition teams to take out the other two externally mounted guns. He and the other squads head through the main entrance. The iron doors are sealed, but helpless against melta bombs, and the Ultramarines are inside.

  The ground floor feels like a frozen storm. Cables and power conduits snake everywhere, overlapping and tangling with each other, running from the colossal generator in the centre of the huge space. Its multiple coils are tall as ancient trees. They glow a sullen blue and hum with murderous power. The python mass of conduits leads from the generator to the rear of the keep. There, taking up more than half of the building, is the plasma reservoir.

  The generators have been reworked, their outputs straining the limits of their architecture as they are pushed to provide the energy needed to fuel the four guns.

  Everywhere, Hierax sees signs of recent work on the generators and the feeds to the reservoir, and in the reinforcements of the walls of the keep. The enemy has been industrious.

  ‘There is too much here for the Iron Warriors to have constructed on their own, and so fast,’ Hierax voxes his company. ‘Too much mechanical and technological expertise. Expect to find another enemy inside these walls.’

  The chamber that occupies most of the inner keep is empty, but in the north-west corner, a spiral, wrought-iron staircase leads to another floor. Hierax mounts the stairs, bolter at the ready, his squad at his heels. He pauses below the top of the stairs. The chamber above is dimly lit, its gloom pulsing with the flickering glow of pict screens. It is the control centre for the defence lasers. Hierax takes the last few stairs three at a time and leaps into the control centre, sweeping his bolter in a wide burst of fire. Screens explode, filling the air with a blizzard of shards. Electrical arcs flare from smashed work stations. And a thing that was once human emits a stuttering, grinding squeal of binaric as bolt shells cut through its thorax.

  The Mechanicum adept falls to the floor, mechadendrites and jointed metal limbs flailing uncontrollably. A plasma pistol drops from twitching fingers. Hierax marches over to the robed figure. There is no flesh visible at all. The metal limbs appear to have grown spines. Hierax cannot imagine what use they might have. They look like sheer excess, a physical symptom of a corruption that is moral and machinic at the same time. Hierax’s lip curls in disgust and he fires into the adept’s skull, scattering metal and blood across the floor.

  Librarian Aphovos joins him. ‘Just the one?’ he says.

  Hierax nods. ‘Enough to command the guns in this control centre.’

  ‘But this thing did not attach the extra ones to the keep walls on its own.’

  ‘No. There are more somewhere.’

  If there are more adepts of the Mechanicum, they are not in the keep. The reports come in from the other squads as they complete their sweeps of the defence-laser emplacement. The enemy is dead. The Ultramarines have taken the target.

  Hierax orders the total destruction of the keep, then heads outside. After contacting the Ultimus Mundi with the news that the Iron Warriors have Mechanicum allies on the planet, he looks north, towards the mountains that conceal Siderius. ‘Lanatus,’ he voxes, ‘what news?’ Since the taking of the guns, the Stormbirds have been flying reconnaissance over the mountains, seeking the way to reach the hive.

  ‘There is a pass,’ says Lanatus.

  ‘I can see it.’ There is a road leading from the defence lasers to a narrow cleft in the mountains. The peaks are brutal and jagged. They thrust upwards from the plain like fortress walls. Hierax is impressed by the will of the Carcherans, who sought to create a settlement inside such a formidable barrier. It must have been a heroic task.

  ‘The enemy has been at work on the pass,’ says Lanatus. ‘There are numerous rockfalls blocking the road.’

  ‘Is there any chance of getting our tanks through?’

  ‘None. Not without spending days clearing the rubble. But infantry should be able to climb the obstacles.’

  Hierax does not like the journey this information portends. ‘Is there any other way overland?’

  ‘No. This way, at least, there is a partial road.’

  ‘And an airlift to Siderius?’

  ‘This is Rennias, brother-captain,’ the pilot of the other Stormbird breaks in. ‘I just attempted an overflight of the city. There are numerous anti-air guns on the spires, wind shear conditions are extreme, and there is no room to stage a landing.’

  Hierax’s jaw tightens. He has the unpleasant sensation of a noose drawing around his company, and there is nothing he can do about it. ‘Understood,’ he tells the pilots. ‘Give us the air support you can.’ He switches to the company vox channel. ‘Sergeant Gorthia, your squad will hold this position. All other legionaries, we make for the pass. We must leave the tanks and advance on foot.’

  Khrossus stands at the threshold of the Wo
rd Bearers chapel, waiting for Ker Vanthax to become aware of his presence. The warsmith quells his impatience, and the urge to call to the chaplain and so break his concentration.

  The chanting of the Word Bearers swirls around the walls of the chapel. It laps at Khrossus, a foul, maddening tide. The sound has become a visible thing. It flows over the floor of the chamber. It is fluid and mist, and it trembles like flesh, and it has the strength of stone. Colours whisper of dreams, of madness, of burning worlds. The dome of the chamber is blurry. Khrossus looks once, and feels as if he might fall up and through the ceiling, plunging all the way through the Carchera system, and then onwards, out of the materium altogether.

  He looks away quickly. He has no doubt that what Ker Vanthax said was true. This is a bloody world. And whether its history has brought it close to the warp, or whether the thinness of the veil between the materium and the immaterium is what controlled the history, dark powers are close to the surface here.

  Ker Vanthax weaves in and out of the chanting trance. His face is obscured by the shadows and colours, but now and then his features become clear, and his gaze leaves the infinite, as if he is conscious once more of himself and is thinking rationally of strategy and tactical needs, rather than communing with forces beyond reason.

  One such moment happens now. Ker Vanthax stops chanting. The sorcerous mist drops away from him, pooling at his feet, and he sees Khrossus. Without leaving his position in the centre of the star, Ker Vanthax says, ‘You may speak with me, warsmith.’

  The other Word Bearers do not react. They are too deeply entranced. They continue to chant, and Khrossus must raise his voice to be heard.

  ‘The Ultramarines have taken the defence lasers,’ he says. ‘They will be making their way here. I need them desperate, more likely to make a mistake.’

  ‘Does Guilliman make mistakes?’

  ‘He trusted you at Calth.’

  Ker Vanthax smiles. ‘What do you want of us?’ he asks.

  ‘One way or another, they are approaching. We will hold them off for as long as we can.’